


A Dragon's Heart Nailed to a Forgotten Door

by AnonEMouse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEMouse/pseuds/AnonEMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hoards the traces of John's love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dragon's Heart Nailed to a Forgotten Door

Everyone thought Sherlock Holmes a heartless bastard. Even Lestrade, who liked Sherlock more than almost anyone, and genuinely appreciated the man for what he was and didn’t punish him for what he wasn’t, had his doubts regarding Sherlock’s emotional capabilities. He wasn’t a sociopath like he claimed—and Lestrade was smart enough to know that general psychology rejected that term these days, which put a crimp of irony in Sherlock’s self-proclaimed status—but Lestrade often wondered what Sherlock _did _feel. Paranoia, certainly. Fear, sometimes, especially if Dr. Watson was in trouble. Anger, infrequently, if he was foiled. And lust, occasionally. Lestrade had seen him pause to reassess someone who had surprised him. Sherlock never reacted to physical beauty but a mind that didn’t operate within his predicted patterns would catch his notice. And Lestrade knew enough about it to recognize want on another man’s face.__  


But really, what did Sherlock Holmes _feel _? Lestrade didn’t know. The man was a fortress protecting against any possible attack, whether it be to hurt or comfort. It was unknowable, for whatever Sherlock felt was held within those fortress walls.__  


Yet John Watson knew.  


He knew that Sherlock felt far more and much deeper than anyone guessed. He knew Sherlock’s facade of indifference was born from a lifetime of insults and antipathy, that constant betrayal and being branded a social pariah had forced him to build up a wall so thick it could not be breached. And, over time, as his confidence in his own abilities grew, John knew that Sherlock’s pretended indifference became, for the most part, real. He could dismiss the insults and barbs of lesser people because they really didn’t matter to him. But John also knew that when someone slipped Sherlock’s guard, Sherlock held that person in the warm regard of his heart with the tight, greedy clutch of a dragon hoarding treasure. Once loved by Sherlock Holmes, you were never un-loved.  


And that was killing John.  


And that was killing Sherlock.  


They stood in the parlor of their old flat, empty now except for dust and the rucksack at Sherlock’s feet. John cleared out long ago, and Mycroft had removed Sherlock’s things to storage not long after.  


“Please,” Sherlock whispered, barely able to move his lips to form the words. “Please don’t. Please, John. Don’t.”  


For a moment, John felt the world tilt under his feet and he saw he and Sherlock in bed, and those words coming from Sherlock in an entirely different tone—one lover reaching out to the other, teasingly, trying to stop the abandonment of their bed and falling back, laughing, when he couldn’t. A dream? A wish? A peek into a different universe in which John and Sherlock had not been thrown so far of course, one in which they fulfilled their fate as lovers and friends? Didn’t matter. Couldn’t. That world didn’t exist. Not here.  


“I—” John broke off, swallowed hard. He was drowning on air, choking on nothing, crushed by this thing he was doing, unable to stop himself. “I can’t, Sherlock. I can’t. I can’t,” he whispered the words over and over, wishing for his old armchair, for something soft and warm to hold him now. But there was only this cold room and himself and Sherlock. Nothing to catch them. Nothing to fall back on.  


A sob broke through Sherlock’s restraint and anyone hearing it would not doubt Sherlock Holmes’ ability to feel. It was the sound of a fortress falling to ruin. Sherlock began shaking, tears poured down his face. He stuffed his fist in his mouth to prevent more of those broken sounds from escaping and sank to his knees, rocking back and forth, instinctively seeking comfort from something, anything.  


John hesitated for a moment, not unsure or afraid, but because he knew his next actions would make it all so much worse. He should just leave, let Sherlock grieve his loss alone as John had grieved his. But John had never betrayed Sherlock before and he wouldn’t now. He knelt next to Sherlock and pulled the taller man into his embrace, burying his face in Sherlock’s hair and inhaling the scent of those precious curls he loved so well. A faint chemical scent lingered from when Sherlock dyed his hair dark again.  


“Shh,” John whispered, cradling Sherlock and carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he pressed kisses to his temple. “You’ll make yourself sick, Sherlock, please stop.”  


“I can’t,” Sherlock said, and he sounded like himself for a moment, frustrated that the world wasn’t behaving how he wanted it to. They sat like that for a long time, until Sherlock finally began to calm down. _This is the hard part _, John thought, bracing himself.__

“You love me,” Sherlock said, dully. “I know you do.”

“Yes.” John didn’t deny it, didn’t bother with prevarication. No use hiding from those grey eyes. They saw everything.

“But you love her, too. Just as much. Different, but the same.”

“Yes.” Another simple statement.

“Why her?”

John heard what Sherlock was really asking. _Why not me? _He closed his eyes and sighed, clutching Sherlock a little closer. “I don’t leave,” he murmured, stroking Sherlock’s back softly, talking into his hair. It was not meant as a condemnation—John understood why Sherlock did what he did—but it was the truth._ I would never have left you, but you left me, and this is how I got on. I found someone who would never leave me and she put me back together and I love her for it._

“But you’re leaving me,” Sherlock cried softly.

“No,” John said, smoothing back Sherlock’s hair and looking into his eyes. “You’re my best friend, Sherlock, and you always will be. I will always be here for you, if you need me. I just can’t be with you; we missed our moment.” John stood, drawing Sherlock to his feet. “But we will always have the foundation. That will not change. Ever.”

“I don’t think I can do that, John. I can’t be around you and not have you. I don’t think I can share you. Maybe she can, but I can’t.” And John heard those unspoken words, too. _I am a dragon, hoarding my treasure. ___

Sherlock’s voice was unsteady but he dropped John’s hands and stepped back. John could see a new wall rising behind Sherlock’s eyes. He was entombing John there, walling his love up brick by brick, sealing it off where it could never escape nor live. And John saw it happening, saw that echo of another time and place where they were happy disappearing into the recesses of Sherlock’s memory palace. They stood in silence, John aching that he hurt his friend and Sherlock fortifying his defenses until he was the lone sentinel on the wall, wary and watching. And inside that mental fortress—prison, curse—was a castle, and in the castle a room. A room filled with laughter and smiles and crinkly blue eyes and jumpers and burnt eggs and tea and Cluedo and Bart’s and blogs and mad adventures and Angelo’s and Baker Street and a few precious kisses. Too few kisses, lonely in a chest Sherlock had built much bigger, intending it to hold memories of love and sharing and a marriage and maybe even a family. Instead there were only these few memories, hidden even in a hidden room.

And Sherlock Holmes was a fortress once more.

**Author's Note:**

> OMG this came out way more sad than intended.


End file.
